


Love Me When It's Cold Out, When I'm Tired And Alone

by basketcasewrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Writes Letters To Steve, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Friends to Lovers, I'm Bad At Summaries, Inspired by Music, Letters, M/M, Mentions of War, More like ~christmas~, but not like CHRISTMAS, this was supposed to be a oneshot but I'm posting from my phone and the site kept crashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 15:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13079598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: Their love is a fire burning them alive from the inside. A muted roaring of flames; alive and beating in time with the rapidity of their hearts.





	1. then

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by the following set of lyrics:
> 
> "I'm tired, I'm freezing, I'm dumb  
> When it gets so late I forget everyone.  
> I need somewhere to stay.  
> Don't think anybody I know is awake.  
> Calm down, it's all right,  
> Keep my arms the rest of the night.  
> When they ask what do I see,  
> I say a bright white beautiful heaven hangin' over me"
> 
> — The National; Don't Swallow the Cap

Their love is a hidden gem, kept buried under layers of secrecy. It is hidden, even from themselves.

Hands intertwine under the wraps of a too thin blanket— olive green, unseemly, torn in places; unsuitable for the cold, but the only one they own.

In the dark of the room at midnight, neither of them able to sleep without even the barest contact from the other, they fool themselves into thinking it doesn't count.

In the dark of the room at midnight, they can pretend.

And, in the morning, when the weak December sunlight filters through the ratty grey curtains, fights to light upon the sparsely furnished room, they do as they have always done.

Hesitant, as they separate from the comfortable entanglement of each other's arms— Steve's, thin, bird-like, lays lazily across Bucky's strong waist; Bucky's, wraps possessively around Steve— and pretend as if, when they had wound around each other, they had both been in the furthest reaches of sleep.

"Tea?" Bucky asks, morning voice a quiet rasp, a husk; tires crunching over loose gravel, thunder and storms.

He is close enough to Steve that his quietest whisper would still be heard.   
Close enough that if, as he spoke, Bucky turns to Steve, his breath would ghost, like a warm fog, over Steve's skin.   
Close enough that if Steve reaches out a hand, his fingertips would do more than just brush against Bucky's sleep-flushed skin.   
Close, minimal space between them, but far enough away that they don't accidentally rub against each other; far enough away that it is _respectable_.

"Yeah," Steve says, a tired croak; nods, and with a warm smile, buries himself further in the covers.

"Sure," he murmurs around a yawn, stretching, the old T-shirt he often wears to bed rides up the solid expanse of his torso; idly drawing Steve's eye to the slim strip of exposed skin.

Slowly, bed creaking under his weight, Bucky slips out of their shared bed.

Steve readily takes advantage of the man's absence; all too happy to not only wrap the complete width of the blanket around himself, but to also drag an observing eye over Bucky.   
All too happy to watch as Bucky slips a thick, red sweater over his ratty T-shirt, runs a steady hand through the unruly mess of his morning air and saunters out of the room— the groan of the floorboards sounding out his path into the kitchen.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, inhales.

It is too early in the day for this; too early for these insistent thoughts to war their way to the front of his mind. Always, it is too early, too late; always the same excuse.

Muted sounds waft out from the kitchen, fill the silent corners of the small apartment as Bucky busies himself. The sounds create a calming, comforting layer of noise that blankets over the constant creaking of the ancient building.

An angry shrieking rings loudly through the apartment, the pipes vocalizing their shrill disapproval as Bucky opens the tap to fill the kettle with just enough for two cups of tea. This furious yelling is followed by a tired squeaking of the faucet as it chokes out a sparse, unsteady stream of water. Drops of the water hitting loudly against the metal.

Steve turns over in the bed, shifting to lay on his back. Scrunching his eyes shut, Steve let's out a sigh. Seconds later, with the exhausting knowledge that he won't be getting back to sleep any time soon, they fly open.

Unsteady on his feet, Steve shuffles out of the bedroom, heads to the kitchen after a short visit to the bathroom; the bathroom, where Steve pointedly averts his gaze from taking in the blurred reflection. Sallow skinned and gaunt, dark purple bags hang under his eyes; colour his skin like a pair of almost identical bruises.

He can barely stand to look at himself. Can, however, hear his mother's voice, clear as day, in his ear, telling Steve— on the verge of scolding Steve— to sleep more. To look after himself.

"Where'd ya get this again?" Steve asks, glancing suspiciously into the large mug of tea Bucky has gingerly placed before him, taking a seat at the small round table that stands slightly out of place between their kitchen and living room.

"It was a gift from Ms Martinelli— Angie, from two doors down. You should really learn to be nicer to old ladies," Bucky answers with a serious nod, sitting across from Steve, in the only other chair.

Steve sips slowly at the sweetened tea— made exactly how he likes it—  hands curled gently around the turquoise mug, Steve rolls his eyes— unappreciative of Bucky or his reasoning.

"And," Steve begins, leveling his gaze with Bucky, "Please tell me who taught you to be nice to old ladies in the first place?"

Bucky shrugs, exuding nonchalance. "I don't know, but I know it wasn't you."

When Bucky laughs— unabashed breathy chuckle wracking through him, the corners of his bottomless blue-grey eyes creasing into a series of folds, toothy smile breaking lighting across his face— Steve could gladly watch him for hours. Nothing that Steve has ever seen is more beautiful than this.

He swallows down a mouthful of the scalding tea and forces out a quiet chuckle of his own. Sending a silent prayer up to a God he hopes is listening, Steve directs his eyes away from Bucky.

It is too early for these thoughts. Always too early.

•

Arms wrap warmly around each other; a hug, shared between friends all the time.

A goodbye hug. A simple hug that Steve and Bucky have shared on more occasions than either can count.

And, if arms tighten around each other in the warmth of the embrace;  if they hold each other far closer than usual— closer than is generally accepted— they can always pretend.

If, for the slightest second— the barest length of a heartbeat— their bodies press flush against each other. If faces bury into the crook of the other's slender neck and breathe in the familiar masculine scents, they can always pretend; they can always ignore. 

"I'll be here when you get back," Bucky promises.

His hands rest on Steve's upperarms, squeeze lightly, and hold him at an arms length away.

Bucky meets the pair of eyes across from him as he speaks— a pale, icy blue companion to Bucky's gunmetal grey— he tries to convey everything that he cannot bring himself to say: _Look after yourself out there. I love you._

•

"How'd it go today?" Steve asks as he settles, legs akimbo, in the least sunken corner of the muddy, brown sofa.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Bucky jokes.

He hands over a bowl of freshly made noodles and takes a seat across from Steve, copying his twisted posture.

Not one to stifle his irritation, Steve exhales loudly, huffs around a large mouthful of green peppers and spicy noodles— spice, another gift from one of the ladies Bucky has been running errands for.   
So long has passed since any regular, remotely nutritious food has graced the walls of their home, it is a struggle for Steve not to stuff it all down at once.

"Every day's the same," Steve says, raising his left shoulder in a shrug. "Nothing exciting ever happens."

"I still wanna know," he insists. "Heard that somebody almost died." Bucky continues, eyeing Steve and hoping to prod him into divulging news of his day.

"Just a rumour," Steve says, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. "How's your job search going? You don't talk about it as much as you used to." He casts a curious glance at Bucky, watches the man as he sits, mulls in silence. " _Or_ are you just gonna stick with playing errand boy?"

Under his breath, Bucky laughs.

"Yeah, maybe I'll just stick with that." It is a reluctant murmur, hushed. "They treat me nice, y'know?"

"I _do_ know," Steve agrees, nodding, emanating a sense of unfounded expertise. He pokes a fork into the shallow well created in the middle of his mound of noodles. "Stick with it then... I, for one, am enjoying all the perks."

"Hm," musically, hums Bucky.

Shrugging, attention drawn away from the conversation, Bucky stretches his left arm over the short gap that spreads between him and Steve. His attempt at stealth is practiced, but still it fails as Bucky tries to swiftly poke his fork in Steve's bowl.

The fight which is initiated, escalates rapidly. As if he is a fly, an insect, Steve swats wildly at Bucky; stings the man with a sharp slap, tinges the tanned skin with a light pink.

_Lightly_ Steve stabs at Bucky's hand, the blunt prongs of the fork not even breaking skin, as a last-ditch attempt to keep Bucky away.

"What the—!" Bucky exclaims, clutching at his hand. Still able to steal a forkful of the noodles— less spicy, less cheesy, made different from his own— he eats it greedily.

"Good," Steve says darkly, brow lowered as he glares venomously at Bucky. Voice flat, he demands, "Gimme some of yours now."

"I don't know, Stevie. It's really spicy," Bucky mutters, fluttering his eyelashes in exaggeration, "I wouldn't want you to hurt your delicate self."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve deadpans, rolling his eyes. "Hand it over, Barnes."

 

Evening passes, the steady tick of the clock is a constant background to their conversations, to their comfortable silences.

Movements fluid, cat-like, Steve stretches. Arching his back in a gentle curve, he yawns loudly, sloppily and reclines in the sofa.

In the seat of Bucky's lap, Steve pillows his legs; comfortable. _Too_ comfortable.

Bucky rests a firm hand against Steve's calf— the leg of his sweatpants riding up, reaching his knees— for just a minute too long.

And, if his touch sends a shiver through Steve, a delicious tingle down his spine, he does as he has always done; they pretends.  
Pretending comes so naturally to him, he doesn't even need to try anymore.

"You look exhausted," Bucky notes around a yawn of his own. Absently, he runs a finger lightly through the thin, fair hair that litters his friend's slim calf.

Steve cracks open an eye, open to hardly even a slit— depths of blue shadowed by the heaviness of his eyelid, spotlighted from underneath by a dusting of pale freckles.

Carefully, Steve gazes at Bucky— _his_ eyes averted, distracted as he stares at the faint blotch of a birthmark painting the porcelain flesh near the bend of Steve's knee— and blinks.

"Prob'ly 'cause I _am_ exhausted," he says, the eye slipping shut again after a second.

"Yeah, it's hard work," Bucky murmurs, swirling an inquisitive finger through a particularly long few strands of leg hair, "You shouldn't strain yourself like that."

"I'm fine, Bucky," Steve says; a simple, tired utterance lacking of any venom or fight. "I'm good. Just lemme sleep."

It is honestly all he wants to do right now; sleep. Fall into and under the waves of an all-consuming slumber; be blissful in its _nothing._

"Sure, bud," Bucky laughs, nudging Steve's leg forward. "Go to bed. I still need to take a shower."

" _What_? You're going to let me be cold?" Steve teases, indignation burning below each word as he cracks a slow smile; serious, Steve hopes he hides how serious he truly is.

Gentle as he slides out from underneath Steve, Bucky grins.

"You don't want me to worry about you, but then you get antsy when I can't look after you?" Bucky muses, eyebrow quirked. He leans over Steve and grins wickedly, voice lilting dangerously low when Bucky next speaks, "Gotta make up your mind, Stevie."

"Just—" Steve begin, exhales quietly, "Just stay with me."

He is hesitant. He is ready to slap himself at allowing the words to ever be said. He is petrified. But he does not take them back; for as scared as he is, he is also intrigued at what Bucky's reaction will be.

And, if, too enthusiastically, Bucky nods his agreement, without even a second to question; if they are both too eager to slip side-by-side into the bed, to press heated bodies close together in the sunken middle of the large mattress— they can pretend.

If Steve's hands find their way under the thin material of Bucky's shirt, rest lightly against the man's solid torso; if Bucky smiles as he falls asleep listening to Steve's unsteady breathing, Steve's erratic heartbeat; if they nestle close together, entangle themselves in their caged embrace— they can always pretend they hadn't; they can always ignore.

They can blame it all on exhaustion, on two minds too tired to work; to think.

 

"I don't think I've ever slept so good in my life," Steve notes, walking into the kitchen and rubbing a towel through his freshly washed hair.

He is wrapped in three thick sweaters, this being the only way to keep warm in the relic of an apartment— two of his own sweaters, old and baggy, falling comfortably just about mid-thigh; one, an old sweatshirt, a fading band logo printed across the chest, nabbed from Bucky. Body chilled from the coldness of the shower; their water bill will be too high if they allowed the water to run hot.

Steve burrows himself in the sweatshirt. Surreptitiously, he breathes in the intoxicating smell that bleeds through the soft material; coffee, grease and mint, forests and waterfalls. As if the material has been dowsed in his perfume, his aftershave; as if Bucky has worn the sweatshirt every single day for a year, has lived in nothing but it.

Bucky hums, noncommittal, "Yeah, it was alright. Would've been better, though, if you didn't kick me all the time."

"You're overreacting," Steve insists, suppressing a chuckle.

Shooting him a quick dark look, Bucky argues in a deadpan, "I think you bruised my rib, Stevie."

"So?" he shrugs, "You got, like, twelve more."

Heavily, always having had a flair for the dramatic, Bucky sighs. He dumps a plate piled high with fried eggs on the table in front of Steve. Chipped plate, a faint shade of pale white, contrasts with the stark white of the new tablecloth; another gift.

"Eat up, punk," Bucky urges, for the most part choosing to ignore Steve and, instead, nudge forward the pair of salt and pepper containers.

"That's a shit tonne of eggs, Buck," Steve says, sceptical as he stuffs down a mouthful.

"Yeah, it is. Told ya, those old folks? They treat me nice. Not a lot of people around for them to care about, y'know."

Humble as ever, Bucky keeps his eyes trained on the plate before him, a slight blush working its way up his neck, his cheeks.

And, if Steve places a shaking hand over Bucky's as it lays, flat, on the table; if, with great delicacy, he gives it a gentle squeeze, revels in this slight feeling of skin against skin.   
If Bucky turns his own hand over and curls it around Steve's, clasps their hands firmly together.   
If the last thing either one of them wants to do is let go— they can do what they have always done.

They can pretend.

They can chalk it up to one being in need of  comfort— of simple reassurance— and the other being able to provide it in the most rudimentary of fashions.

"I noticed..." Bucky clears his throat loudly, voice a rumbling husk, and inches his hand out from under Steve's to tuck it close against his side. He inhales quietly before he continues, feigning nonchalance, "I noticed you haven't really been taking lunch lately."

"No point," Steve breathes out a stuttered reply; his right hand burning from Bucky's touch, from the loss of it. "I don't get a chance to eat it anyway."

"Lunch break?"

"Assignments, reading, revising," Steve points out, waving his fork, indicating the _etcetera_ without actually saying it. "It's a lot tougher, y'know. Having all that to do and still having to work."

The words as they are said, materialize in the air in front of them, sound a lot harsher than they should have; a lot harsher Steve has meant for them to. He regrets it instantly.

The argument is one they have had on countless occasions; for what reason, Steve is unsure. It is an argument for the sake of an argument— on a conscious level, it has not once ever bothered Steve that Bucky lacks a stable job.

"I _am_ working. And I'm searching for something, too," Bucky says stonily, before Steve could voice his apology; clipped. "It's not ideal, yeah. But it's a good job."

"I know—"

"Just 'cause I don't spend all day bitchin' about it, doesn't mean I have it easy. And it helps puts food on the table, doesn't it? Helps keep us in this crappy apartment," Bucky asserts. "So, cut it out. Okay?"

"Okay," Steve agrees, murmuring, a solemn monosyllable. "Sorry—"

"It's fine," Bucky says, short, abrupt. "Just take some fuckin' lunch. I don't need you dying on me— I can't afford to live on my own." The smile which cuts across his face is enough to break the tension— subtle, churning, slow to thicken.

"I'll take it," Steve acquiesces with a grin, a put upon sigh, "As long as you make it for me."

"It's like I'm your husband, or something," Bucky grumbles.

"Or something," Steve says, voice hushed in a quieted murmur, shy smile dancing across faintly pink features.

 

"I'll be here when you get back."

The usual farewell greeting; Bucky's mouth settled right against the shell of Steve's ear, close enough for Steve to feel the slow movement of lips as Bucky murmurs.

This, repeated daily instead of a goodbye; goodbyes are too permanent. Goodbyes are too real.

"You always are," Steve mutters.

His fingertips dig into Bucky's shoulders as he pulls himself away, out from the holdings of the welcome arms that surround him. The separation is hesitant, reluctant; Steve wants only to remain in the secure embrace, but he knows, too, that it has already been longer than is necessary.

"And I always will be," Bucky— lacking a filter, saying the first thing that comes to the front his mind. Wrought through with honesty, with deep-seated emotion.

"I know," Steve mutters. And if, with this breathless utterance, his voice shakes— they can just pretend. "I know."

•

Their love is a whisper in the wind; there and gone without a trace. Enveloping and surrounding, yelling for attention as it is pointedly ignored.

A terribly kept secret.

They hold each other's gazes for seconds too long— oceanic eyes stare deep and searching into ones that shine a dazzling metallic grey, a piercings steel— faces barely inches apart.

They find one another from across crowded rooms; furrowed brows and frowns disappearing. As gentle as possible, pushing people aside to make their way to each other; harmonious reunion.

At any given moment, they embrace each other; rest heads on chests and feel the rise and fall of breath, listen to hearts as they beat.

They miss each other almost painfully when they are forced to be separated. Hate the distance like a stab to the heart; unbearable to stand.

But, no. It is not love. _It is not._

•

"Steve," Bucky murmurs, voice as quiet ad he can make it; in darkness, even the mutest of sounds seems so much louder than it actually is. It is a hesitant whisper, one Bucky hopes is barely audible.

He swallows back a gulp— nausea racing through him, turning his stomach— shattering the delicacy that envelops one in the dead of night.

A shaking hand runs through the thin strands of blond hair— darkened to a deep brunet shade in the dim enclosure of their room— belonging to the exquisite young man curled around him, hands splayed against Bucky's bare chest.

"Stevie," Bucky repeats, a tad louder than before, voice choked with unshed tears; with pent up anxiety. "You awake?"

"Yeah," Steve answers sluggishly, the warmth of his breath ghosting across Bucky's skin; perfect, beautiful and distracting.

"There's something—" Bucky chokes out, nervousness and apprehension carved into his very bones.

He has procrastinated. Has thought it easier if, when he breaks the news to Steve, he couldn't see his face; couldn't see the furrowed brow, the frown, the anger and frustration.

"There's something I gotta tell ya."

Beside him, cheap bedsheets rustle. Steve shifts in the bed, wipes a hand across his tired, sleep-stuck eyes.

Steve begins to speak, to reassure Bucky and urge him to continue when any words he wishes to say are swallowed by a noisy yawn that rattles through his entire body. Instead, he hums, nods his head in a lazy prompt.

"You awake?" Bucky prods, stalling.

"Yeah, I'm awake," Steve readily replies, holding in another, smaller, yawn. His mind in turmoil. "What's going on?"

Bucky fiddles mindlessly at the loose strands of hair that falls away from Steve's face, land messily against the pillows.

He is not strong enough for this.

"I... I signed up..." he pauses and squeezes his eyes shut, wants to take it back as soon as it's out. But he needs to be strong. He needs to be brave. "I enlisted, Stevie. I leave in two weeks."

"You didn't tell me," Steve says, slightly accusatory.

"I didn't know how," Bucky confesses, continuing with an explanation he has spent countless hours rehearsing, "I don't have any idea of what else I can do, Stevie. Around here... I'm useless. I ain't studying, ain't working. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with my life, and I... I need to do _something_. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I _should've_ told you... I just... I didn't know how."

Well rehearsed as it had been, he falters at the end; apologies falling out in a hushed rush of guilt and sorrow that niggles at him.

"Please, Stevie. Please don't hate me."

And, if these words, if the idea of Bucky leaving him to fight a war he doesn't have to fight tears Steve to shreds, he can pretend.

He can pretend, can ignore that he would much rather slowly claw away at his own flesh than have to hear this, to have to say goodbye to Bucky.

Steve exhales and, quiet as it is, it echoes in the strange silence of the room.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and, with every ounce of strength he still has, Steve fights to keep his voice level. "If it's what you want, Buck— if it's what you _need_ to do— I'll be behind you, one hundred percent."

"I know," Bucky mutters, digging blunt fingernails into the soft, bare flesh left palm; blemishing the skin with unseemly crescents. "I know."

•

Their love is a fire burning them alive from the inside. A muted roaring of flames; alive and beating in time with the rapidity of their hearts.

And, as they stand across from each other, the inches stretch for miles and miles into the future. Into wretched unknown.

"You remember what you said?" Steve asks, masking his agitation with a cocky, sly smile. "You'll write me?"

"Of course I will, Stevie," replies Bucky, a grin, just as devilish, parting his cracked lips. "How could I forget about you. You're, like, my best guy."

Steve rocks forward on his heels. A light blush dusts across his cheeks. Embarrassed, Steve averts his eyes from staring at the man across from him.

Everything Steve wants to say burns him as it sits heavily on the tip of his tongue.

"I better as hell be," Steve jokes. "I'll fight anybody else who's trying to be."

The sound hollow, Bucky chuckles, leans forward and mutters, "It's why I stay single, Steve. I'd feel sorry for whoever I'm with."

"I'd be hurt if it wasn't true," Steve says with a reluctant shrug, laughing lightly. He leans forward, casts a serious gaze Bucky's way and lowers his voice intimately, "Good luck."

"Thanks," Bucky murmurs tentatively, bobbing his head in a slow nod.

Silently, they stare into the other's depthless eyes. Steve, hands buried in the deep pockets of his loose brown trousers. Bucky, perfectly pressed in a new uniform, hair gelled and combed neatly.

Like this, Steve could have stared Bucky for hours and never tired.

"I should—" Bucky gestures vaguely over his shoulder towards the looming building, muttering reluctantly, "I should get going."

"Yeah." Steve nods, agreeing.

He watches Bucky with tired eyes. Watches with a slowly breaking heart, unevenly crumbling at its edges; shattering into broken shards that poke sharply, dangerously at the cave of his chest.

A goodbye hangs heavily between them, Bucky standing proud, forlorn, holding a small duffel bag in each hand.

"Goodb—" Bucky begins, cut short by Steve shushing him.

"Don't say that," he chastises, glare sharp and pointed. "I'll see you soon. And you better fucking write me. _Often_."

Glancing away, Bucky titters, and murmurs a promise, "I will, Stevie-baby. I will."

He shoots one last smile at Steve— a goodbye without saying goodbye— and turns, takes steady steps towards the building.

And, if watching Bucky's back as he walks away fills Steve with something leaden; something like dread— he can pretend.

He can _try_ , but this time he can't ignore.

"Bucky!" Steve calls, jogging forward in an attempt to reach the other man. "Bucky, wait!"

At the sudden yell Bucky halts. Steve's voice rings like a heavenly call; an angelic summon that stops everything in its path. He turns on his heel, meeting Steve with a hesitant smile, brow furrowed in worry.

"What's going on, Steve—" Bucky begins.

Steve's lithe form barreling into the solidity of his chest, stops Bucky in his tracks. And Steve's lips as they press firm against Bucky's own leaves him breathless.

Cracked lips press against soft lips— silky, satin smooth— and cloud Steve's mind; melts him. But, Bucky's lips are static; unmoving, it works in filling Steve only with doubt. Regret burns at his gut.

What has he done? He asks himself, thoroughly distressed.

Bucky is the best friend Steve has ever had and now he is certain he will lose him forever, all because of this moment of sheer weakness.   
If he were stronger— if he were simply able to have watched Bucky leave, smiled and waved jovially, sadness and pain skillfully restrained— Steve may have avoided it.

Steve takes a small step back, palms flat against his friend's chest, readying a series of apologies to present Bucky with.

"Bucky, I—"

"Sshh," Bucky orders calmly.

Strong hands tighten around Steve's upper arms and pulls him in close; molds their bodies together. He kisses Steve, and it is passionate, powerful. It is velvety cream and fresh sprigs of mint, supple marshmallows and roughened sandpaper; it is everything that Steve has dreamed of, and it is so much more.

Loath to part, they separate. They stand close, barely inches apart and still holding firmly onto each other, breathing heavily as they recover from the strength of the kiss.

Wordlessly, Steve and Bucky peer into each other's eyes; smiles— large and drugged, edged with muted misery— cut across shining faces that flush in gradients of bright pink, brighter red.

"You know how long I've wanted to do that, Steve?" Bucky asks, the first to break the silence— exploring Steve's face with darting eyes, hands remain placed lightly on Steve's arms.

"I don't know 'bout you, but I've wanted to kiss you since forever," Steve admits, laughing quietly— amused by his own admission.

Bucky leans forward and pillows his forehead against Steve's. He breathes out a quiet laugh, tickled by the the soft sensation of the other man's hair brushing his skin.

Loudly, Bucky swallows. Slips his eyes shut.

"I gotta tell you somethin', Stevie," he begins, rambling, nonsensical; it is manic, yet it is an exhausted utterance. "I gotta tell you somethin' before I leave, 'cause I don't know if I'm going to make it back, okay?—"

There it is— as, for a minute, Bucky's careful show of confidence slips.

"Don't say that. What are you saying? Of course you're going to make it back," Steve chastises with a pointed look; a giddy, euphoric laugh. "Whatever it is— you just gotta tell me when you get back."

They pause to share a series of quick, snatched kisses. As if now that they have had a taste of each other, the last thing they want is to stop. The last thing they want is to allow the tastes of each other— remnants of fruit, of sharp toothpaste— to fade.

"When I get back," Bucky says, brushing a thumb across Steve's pale cheek, swift in swiping a loose few strands of blond hair behind his ear, "I'm taking you out on a date. Jus' like how I always imagined. I promise."

Enthusiastically, Steve nods, grinning widely. "You better keep your promise, Barnes. I'll fight you if you don't."

Bucky lets out a guttural groan and teases, poking at Steve with his index finger, "Always with the threats and the fighting."

Their love is an ocean; infinite, everlasting.

The two men, depthless in their affections, share one more kiss— bittersweet, fringed with new beginnings and bitter endings.

•

One month passes— the loneliest month that Steve has ever experienced; Bucky's absence a gaping wound which refuses to heal— with Steve waiting bitterly.

 

_Stevie—_ The letter, not even a full pages worth of scrawl, begins. The familiarity of the nickname sends a shiver up Steve's spine.

_Each day I spend away from you is taxing. A gaping, black hole like I never thought I'd ever experience. I seem melodramatic, I know that I do. But I miss you more and more as the days pass by, each after the other in the rush of a blur, and it's becoming harder to hold it all in._

_I can't be the only one of us who's wallowing in how bittersweet our entire situation is? To finally know the taste of your lips just as I know my own, only to not be able to grab you and kiss you whenever the fancy_ _strikes—_ _which, trust me, would be all the_ _time—_ _leaves an acrid taste in my mouth._

_Day in, day out, I'm surrounded by this bitter tragedy. So, the very existence of the selfishness of my line of thought creates havoc in my mind._

_I should be focused on the world around me; on fighting, on saving lives, on carrying out orders. Shouldn't I? Not just focused on you._  
_Not just f_ _ocused_ _on how much_ _I wish you could see some of this place, or wish you could be here with me._

_Yes, I won't  lie, sometimes it a huge_ _shitstorm_ _—_ _okay,_ _**most times;** _ _most times it's a huge_ _shitstorm_ _. What else to expect, right? But other times? Other times, when it's during the sunrise or the sunset, the way that the whole sky is set on fire is honestly the most incredible thing I've ever_ _seen_ _._

_I get so_ _**awestruck.** _ _Honest to God, awestruck. If you could see it with your own eyes, you would be, too._

_Do you r_ _emember your birthday, the one that's just passed? When we snuck up onto the roof and waited two whole hours for the sun to rise? I think about that often, y'know. You swore that it was the best thing you'd ever seen, but if only you could see this. You'd change your mind instantly if you could see this._

_Stevie, baby, if things were better I'd bring you out to see it as soon as I could. I think you'd probably appreciate it more than I do, since you_ _**are** _ _an artist. Whatever the case, you'd absolutely love it, I know you would._

_Yours,_  
_Bucky_

 

In an antique wooden box that had once— in a time, faraway, not forgotten— belonged to his mother; an antique box carved with intricate, traditional Asian patterns; Steve stores each of the letters and photographs and postcards Bucky manages to send.

Covets them like they are worth more than any precious metal, like priceless jewels.

 

_Stevie,_

_You know what's something I have never, not even once before, in all my_ _twenty-one_ _years of living, thought of? How beautiful you would look with flowers in your hair; delicate, maybe, and so unlike you._

_You're rolling your eyes, aren't you? I can tell. Or maybe you're laughing_ _at me, thinking of me as a fool. Thinking me as asinine._

_We passed a small florist today, I can't remember what it was called._ _But_ _out front they had this stand of pastel flowers. Pale purples. Pink, too; real pretty._

_I guess it's weird,_ _**strange** _ _, that that is to where my mind immediately jumps. The other guys don't think so, in fact, they strongly_ _disagree—_ _they've been out here longer than I have, say it's normal to hold onto positive thoughts of a lover, a friend, a person who means the world to you. Say it's thoughts like that which helps to get you through all of_ _**this.** _

_It makes sense, doesn't it? To an extent, I do get it._

_I guess, being surrounded by all this darkness, it's nice to have something good to think of; something as good, as pure to think of as you._

_Yours,_  
_Bucky_

 

Letters, page after page of beautiful, easy writing, pass between Steve and Bucky.

An unsteady pattern, irregular, often with gaps that span months between them.

But this exchange is simple; they have lead themselves to believe it is effortless.

 

_Stevie,_

_Receiving_ _your letters is seriously the highlight of my life right now. Every month that I am able get these, it's like a set of holy revelations, of sorts._  
_Like opening a box and finding a million dollars; like finding something you had spent all your time wishing for, not expecting to actually get; like finding proof that Heaven exists_ _._

_I'm rambling, not making much sense. I know. I know that I am. But I don't care; it's true. It's so true that it may actually hurt._

_Maybe what I'm trying to do with all this talk of_ _ **nothing**_ _is avoid everything I feel compelled to say._  
_Maybe I'm scared that I'm running out of things to say, and sooner or later I'll have nothing for us to talk about._

_I can't help but think about how unfair this all is, y'know? For us to be together, for us to be ripped apart so unceremoniously. It's got all the makings of a Nicholas Sparks novel, doesn't it?_  
_Us, the lovers, separated by time and war after just being brought together._

_To think, if we hadn't been such a pair of complete_ _idiots—_ _heads stuck so far up our asses, we couldn't even_ _breathe—_ _we could have had this all along._

_I'm wallowing. But, I'm so fucking tired of wallowing._

_Things worked out the way they worked out, and I'd like to believe that it had something to do with Fate, or Destiny, or_ _**something** _ _to do with a higher power._

_Maybe it was supposed to turn out this way, to give me something more solid to fight for._

_Yours Always,_  
_Bucky_

 

Birthdays pass, holiday after holiday. Important, life changing events. And it is a breathless torture to face them on their own.

The separation never grows any easier, but _does_ separation ever grow any easier?

 

_Stevie,_

_I miss you. I miss you, and it is a physical, throbbing ache that I can feel_ _ **constantly.**_  
_As much a part of me as my breath, my lungs._

_I miss you, and I'm terrified. Because you're beautiful, stunning,_ _**amazing** _ _, and I wonder what are you doing with me, when you could have anyone you wanted..._

_I'm being kinda crazy, I know. Overreacting. Picking apart at every little thing._ _**I know** _ _. But I can't help it._

_I miss you so much. I miss you so much and I have no idea how to deal with this. Even after all this time, I have no idea how to deal with it._

_How do you deal with it?_

_Because I am breaking apart at the seams. I'm_ _self-destructing_ _, burning myself quite willingly to the ground._

_Forever Yours,_  
_Bucky_

 

"You miss him, don't you?" Natasha asks, more perceptive than anyone else that Steve knows, sliding into the bench across from him.

Wryly, with a nod, Natasha indicates the letter that Steve has placed flat against the decaying picnic table. Steve glances up at her, squinting sensual eyes in his best attempt to shield them against the glare of the sun which shines brightly behind her.

Bottom lip, worried by the drag of straightened teeth, swollen. "Yeah," he murmurs, nodding his sad agreement.

 

_Stevie,_

_My angel._ _I am_ _**so** _ _proud of you. After all the hard work that you've put in, you deserve to be accepted into The Institute a dozen times over._

_I wish, above all else, that I could hold you. Could lift you off the ground and just squeeze you, pepper you with a hundred kisses. A million kisses._

_You deserve everything the world has to offer. You deserve the world itself. I wish I could be there to let you see that, to know it as well as I know it._

_I don't know when next I will be able to get in contact with you. My unit's moving on, it's temporary, but it's also all real dodgy._

_Hopefully, I'll be back to you soon, my love. Hopefully. The longer time passes, the more it feels like something one would wish for in the holds of a dream; a frustrating, lucid dream. More a nightmare than anything else._

_I say, even to myself, that I will be back to you soon, but I'm not so sure anymore._

_I imagine_ _what it would've been like, if we had been given the chance to truly_ _**love** _ _each other; to kiss each other, to cuddle, to wake each other up at the oddest times for a snack or a date, to take our time exploring the curves and knots of each other's bodies. To fight, to argue about simple, mundane things._

_We could've had_ _**everything** _ _—_ _sure, we'd still be dirt poor, but it wouldn't even matter. That isn't the everything that I'm talking about._

_It's sad, knowing that was just within our grasp. But, instead, we got_ **_this_ ** _and it's just so fucked._

_Yours Forever_ _,_  
_Bucky_

 

The letters are held sacred, and their words cut Steve deep. Claw at him. Tear away at him until he is nothing but beautiful strips; until he is but a fleshless cage, a mere frame.

 

_Stevie,_

_Do y_ _ou believe in ghosts, my angel? Do you believe in them at all?_

_The longer that I'm out here, the more that I'm finding myself start to._

_Just yesterday outside this little bakery_ _, I saw this pair of kids dancing, without any music, in the middle of the sidewalk._  
_Two beautiful little girls, maybe five and six, maybe even younger._

_I remember thinking to myself how_ _**freeing** _ _it must be, to be able to find some kind of joy in this hellhole. Thinking to myself how great it was, how absolutely beautiful. Heartbreaking, but so beautiful._

_But it isn't there anymore, Stevie. I went_ _back there, wanted to give those girls a few sweets, y'know. But isn't there. Not anymore. Just rubble where a building used to be. It was bombed weeks ago._ **_Weeks_ ** **_ago_ ** _._

_This place, I can feel it as it's messing with my head. All of_ _this—_ _death and destruction, everywhere I turn. It's driving me crazy._

_I don't know how much longer I can handle all of this. Don't know how much longer I can do this._

_I'm terrified, Steve. I'm terrified that I'm slowly losing my mind, that the longer I stay here the sooner I'm going to spiral into some kind of madness._

_Always,_  
_Bucky_

 

"What?" Steve exclaims excitedly, eyeing the matching rings on Clint and Natasha's hands; simple silver bands. "Congratulations, you guys."

He lunges forward to embrace them; to hold them both in a firm group hug, laughing happily as Clint and Natasha squeeze him right back.

"I'll be living the life," Clint begins, smirking, leaning back and straining to stretch his arms high over his head. "Spending the rest of my life with the most amazing person in the world."

"If you really feel that way, why'd _I_ have to be the one to propose?" Natasha teases, poking Clint in his exposed side.

And, if, even as genuinely happy as he is for Clint and Natasha, seeing them in love and ready to take this next step in their relationship impales him with sheer, utter jealousy— Steve can pretend. Steve can ignore.

The only thing that he needs is to be one hundred percent invested in them and in their upcoming wedding.

 

_Steve,_

_I'm sorry, you have to believe me. I have_ **_never_ ** _set out to hurt you in any way._

_You're the greatest thing to ever have happened to me, I don't know what I'd do if I managed to lose you. Especially, no idea what I'd do if the reason I lost you was because of my stupid._

_No excuses, Stevie. No excuses. But being out here is_ _ **so**_ _hard. So damn hard. I can feel myself slowly changing the longer that I'm out here._  
_You'd think that after so long I'd be immune, or something, to this disaster of a war. That I would've grown dead to it, or cynical. Some of the other guys are like that, but goddamn it I don't ever want to grow numb to it. I'd rather have it slowly kill me than for me to grow numb to it._ _To not feel anything._

_But, my angel, you don't deserve to hear about all this shit. I don't want you hearing about all this shit, at least not from me. Which is ridiculous, right? That I want to protect you from it all even though you're also surrounded by it?_

_But I care about you, Steve. From the bottom of my heart, the very depths of my soul, I care about you. And I'd like to believe that you still care about me, too._

_It's terrifying to say that you, my angel, are all I have, all I need._ _The only reason I choose to get up each day and continue with this._

_I need you to know_ _something. I need you know that I love you._ _**I love you, Steve Rogers** _ _. I would've said it to you all those months ago, but you are a stubborn pain in the neck and wouldn't let me; made me promise that I'd say it when I came back home. But, the thing is, I honestly don't think I'm coming back._

_I'm not saying it like that because I'm giving up— I'm not giving up, I swear. It's just that the more I spend out here, the more I can see flashes of my own impending demise._

_I love you, Stevie, I think that I always have._

_I think that_ _if right now we were together, I would probably have already asked you to marry me._  
_No, not_ _ **probably**_ _, I definitely would have._

_I can imagine nothing better than growing old beside you. That is, if you'll have me._

_Bucky_

 

Winters are always colder alone.

It doesn't matter how well he prepares for the drop in temperature, Steve is far from suited to the cold.

He is not as tiny as he used to be, but he shivers; the cold seeping into the ivory of his bones in the same way.

 

_Stevie,_

_Lately, it's been feeling less and less like we're actually a part of a world, and more like we're ghosts, transparent images haunting the margins. We're in the middle of nowhere, it is cooler than just nights ago but it's not cold, and I think about how anyone of us could die out here._

_I'm trying not to think about it too much, though. Trying not to think of it at all, but I can't help myself. When this darkness creeps up on me, I can't stop it from pulling me under this blanket and into its void._

_Thinking of you helps, I've said it before._

_I'm sorry, my angel, if recently all my letters are repetitive; seem like_ _half-hearted_ _reruns of a show played too many times to be even remotely interesting. If they hold snippets of lines, of stories, that I've already written about. I think that the more I say it, the more I start to believe it, too._

_Every time I say that you give me something to live for, it's me reminding myself that_ _**yeah, I got somebody to live for.** _

_Admittedly, though, it's tough._

_You know what I never thought of until I've been out here, Stevie, baby? Children._

_I guess it's something that I've always thought of; something that kinda just sits at the back of my mind, waiting for_ _**later** _ _. An absent thought, one I have and is then gone._ _Something I've abstractly seen in my future but not_ _**really** _ _**thought** _ _about._

_Well, I been thinking about it a lot lately. Which is strange, yeah._

_I think about a little kid with hair like_ _yours—_ _light blonde and difficult to tame, always falling in their eyes. With eyes like_ _yours—_ _clear and baby blue, with light freckles that dance against their porcelain skin._

_We_ _could'a_ _made the most beautiful babies, y'know. They'd be righteous, too, thanks to you._

_It's funny, don't you think? Me, James Buchanan Barnes, wanting nothing more than to settle down. To have a family all of my own._

_It's all you, Stevie. It's all because of you._

_Yours, Forever, Always,_  
_Bucky_

 

Steve slumps in on himself, curls around his sweater-bundled frame.

Sleeping alone, after a lifetime of sleeping with Bucky's solid presence warming him, is still a burden; a chore, a task Steve has not yet been able to master.

 

_Steve,_

_It's getting tougher out here. Just the other night, my unit was ambushed by these guerilla fighters_ _._  
_We hadn't been prepared. If we had been, I'd like to believe that things would've turned out differently. Instead, we lost nearly twenty soldiers._

_I_ _could'a_ _been one of the soldiers killed. Would've been, too, if Dugan hadn't been there for me._

_Part of me, honestly, even was relieved for a second. There's this guy in front of me, holding a knife to my neck, and all I can think is how grateful I am. That_ _**finally** _ _this can all be over. I can finally be free, and out of this_ _craptown_ _._

_I'm sorry, Stevie, you don't gotta hear all of this. But I can't think to write about anything else._

_Take care of yourself._

_Bucky_

 

Little things will set him off— couples holding hands, kissing, laughing with each other, going on dates; families with young children; soldiers in uniforms walking through the city.

Strange things that remind Steve of Bucky will leave him shaking, near to breaking.

He misses him. More than anything, Steve misses him.

 

_Steve,_

_I've planned this letter out so many times in my head that writing it all down seems almost impossible._

_For once, I can't seem to find any of the right words to say; viciously, they allude me._

_There is no poetic way to say that I just can't do this anymore. There_ __is no poetic way to say that it's_ _ __too much_ _ _._ __**Us** _ _ _._ __**This** _ _ _._ __It's all too much._ _

_It used to be that,_ _when things got bad here, the simplest thought of you would make this all seem distant._  
_You, your smile, your stupid jokes._  
_I'd think of you and then everything would be better, everything would seem distant. Would make it seem as if I were anywhere but here. I'd be in this place of peace and calm and warmth, even if only for a little while._

_But lately. Lately nothing helps. Not even you._

_I don't know what that says about me, Stevie. I don't know anything anymore._

_Everywhere I look I see the face of Death; soldiers ashen faced and all too prepared for it, fathers and mothers sacrificing themselves for their families, children cowering under awnings and hiding in rubble. I see it, stamped on my own face, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror._

_I've tried to be strong. Tried to tell myself it'll be okay. Told myself that it had to be okay, 'cause I had to get back home to my Stevie._

_But I'm tired of pretending, Steve; it isn't fair on either of us. I don't think that I'm going to make it through this. I love you, more than anything, and I'm so sorry for what a burden I have been to you._

_I love you, Steve. So much. It's what I was going to say to you all those months ago, remember? I've written it to you on so many different occasions, I just wish that I_ _could_ _have_ _said to you_ _**at least**_ _once_. 

_I love you, my angel. You deserve the world, you deserve every single star in the galaxy, but I am not the one who can give it to you._

_Please, don't write back to me._

_In life, In death,_  
_Bucky_

 


	2. now

"Uncle Steef! Uncle Steef!" the child yells at the top of her lungs, her voice carrying ahead of her.

She bolts through the open front door and, with lightning speed, rushes into Steve's arms.

Grinning widely up at Steve, she proudly showcases a crooked, gap-toothed smile. "Look, I falled and got my tooths knocked out."

"No, Cori," Natasha corrects, calmly walking in behind her, arms full of grocery bags. "You didn't _fall_ — Nathaniel _pushed_ you."

"We was playing," Corinne exclaims, worming out from Steve's bear hug and throwing her arms up in exasperation.

Under his breath, Steve chuckles and _boops_ the child on the tip of her nose.

"Well, I think you look great. You did save the teeth, right?" Steve queries, with a serious frown, a deep stare. He smiles only when Corinne nods back at him, equally as serious, "Good, 'cause you wouldn't want to miss the Tooth Fairy."

Natasha's low groan echoes from the confines of the kitchen; Steve knows that if she could see him, she would shoot him a trenchant glare.

This is a disagreement that they have often, a fun argument carried out joyously, mostly for the benefit of the children: Natasha maintains that the Tooth Fairy only wants the teeth when the teeth are _supposed_ to be removed, Steve insists that the Tooth Fairy didn't care how the teeth come out as long as they do.

Natasha is not going to be to happy with Steve later.

"Where is Nate, anyway?" Steve asks, crossing the living room to help Natasha unpack her family's groceries.

"Outside," she answers, with a pointed roll of her eyes. Ruffling through a paper bag filled with fresh vegetables, Natasha pauses. "Clint said that I _don't give him enough opportunity to discipline the kids... S_ o, I told him to deal with Nate."

Steve halts from stacking cans in one of the cupboards along the wall. He turns to look at Natasha, eyebrow quirked. "You gave him pointers, right?"

"Of course I did," Nat says, not glancing Steve's way. "You really think I'd allow Clint to give valuable, possibly _life-changing_ advice to an eight-year-old?"

"What'd you tell him to say?" Steve asks, suppressing a laugh.

"Fight whoever you want— as long as they deserve it— but don't fight your sister. _Especially_ , don't fight your sister unprovoked. And if you're going to fight, please don't knock out anymore teeth— dentists are expensive," Natasha recites with a shrug, counting off each point on her slim fingers and barely batting an eye. "At least, that's the one that _I_ always give them."

" _And_ ," Corinne adds, popping into the kitchen from out of nowhere, holding a large chocolate chip cookie; her words are whistled, tongue poking through the space where her two front teeth were, "If someone messes with my big brother I can punch them. Mama says so, so I can. Isn', Mama?"

"Yes, bubble," Natasha agrees with a fond smile. "Now, tell me, you stinky child, where did you get that cookie?"

Corinne's eyes widen, comical blue saucers. "Daddy says I can have it," she yells loudly, stuffing the whole biscuit in her mouth before it can be taken away from her. "Daddy says!" Corinne repeats wildly, throwing her hands above her head and running out of the room.

"She's so much like Clint, it's actually a bit sad," Steve notes with a cutting grimace, chuckling lightly.

"Hey," Natasha admonishes, "That's my husband you're talking about."

Steve raises his hands in surrender. A slow smile crosses his face as he continues to pack the cupboards.

"It's great, y'know?" he begins, a quiet utterance. "What you and Clint have here, your family... It's all really great."

A beat of silence stretches between them.

The only sound in the airy kitchen is the sound of doors opening and clicking shut as they pack the cupboards and the refrigerator full.

"You ever think you're ready for all this, too? Natasha asks, leaning against the counter to cast an appraising look over her friend. "The family, the kids, the less-than-simple life? All of it."

"I thought I could'a had it," Steve admits, averting his gaze, "But that was a lifetime ago."

"Just an idea, but _maybe_ you should start dating again," Natasha says.

She broaches the subject carefully, adamant. Cautious as she continues to advance, undeterred by the venomous look Steve throws her way.

"Don't give me that look, Rogers," Natasha warms. "I know what you keep saying; that you're too busy with work, and all that. _But_ , hear me out, I also know this really great guy from work— he trained as a lawyer but went into teaching about three years ago, _and_ he's also an environmental activist."

"Uh," Steve groans, an incomplete noise.

"I just think that one date couldn't hurt."

"I can't, Nat. I'm sorry," Steve says, apologetic, "I'm sure he really is a great guy— he must be if you like him so much. But I... can't."

"I get it, you know," Natasha mutters knowingly, for a fleeting moment  resting a hand on the man's upperarm. "You don't talk about and we try not to bring it up, but we all know it's there. Whatever it is that happened with Bucky, whatever it is you don't talk about."

He lets out a hollow laugh; an exhale of breath, more than a jovial chuckle.  Eyes, heavy from lack of sleep, slip shut and he runs a tired hand through already tousled hair.

"Eleven years," Steve mentions, voice a flat puff of breath. "I don't even know if he's dead or alive, Nat. If he's got a family. If he thinks about me. Nothing."

"Just, think about the date, 'kay?" Natasha urges quietly, about to say something else when Clint enters, Nathaniel adhered firmly to his side.

With a crooked smile, Clint greets Steve. "Hey, Steve," he greets, lowering his voice as he turns his attention to the sullen child in his arms. "Say _hi_ to Uncle Steve."

Nathaniel sets a penetrative, probing gaze upon Steve; one that would be terrifying if Steve did not know the child as well as he does.   
It lasts a second. A wide smile cuts across the boys face, immediately casting him in a lighter, less eery air.

"Hi, Uncle Steve." He waves absently.

"Hey there, little buddy," Steve greets, running a hand through Nathaniel's rusty red-brown hair to tousle it easily into a wild nest of tangles.

And, if, at the sight of Natasha and Clint's small family, his heart twinges with absolute, unparalleled _want—_ _Steve_ can always pretend. Steve has been doing it for years.

•

A simple white candle— slim, tendrils of warm wax dripping lazily down its slim length— sits on the ledge of Steve's window.

Merrily, the soft flame dances; elegant, and in time with the melodic choral of the carolers. Its subtle glow barely competing to cast a faint light over the sparkling snow piled outside.

The singular candle— a new one lit every evening to stand before the frosted glass— marks the wintry nights as they solemnly pass. It is something that Steve has come to do every year. A tradition, of sorts. One he does not remember when exactly he began.

A candle to light the way home. A candle of remembrance.

Steve isn't sure if it is something he has read about while researching religions and cultures, or if it's another fallacy his mind has created. Either is likely.

°

Wine glass in hand, brimming with crimson liquid, Steve glides down the short path from the kitchen to the lounge— the spacious area, sparsely brightened by the dim lights that radiates from the floor lamp, and from the decorated Christmas tree.

The quiet music playing over the speakers is not the type to dance to, yet Steve sways his hips gently as he walks— _City_ _and Colour_ plays unashamedly on repeat.

Muffled laughter filters into the closed perimeters of Steve's modest home.

The high, ringing tones of children's voices as they play— mindless, senseless— outside in the snow fills Steve with a longing, bitter and burning.  
One he rather bury far in the depths of his mind. Somewhere it can't be reached.

He tilts his head back slightly, drops into the plush cushions of the old sofa with an exhale, a noisy sigh.

This time of year, more than any other, is difficult for Steve to get through.  
Harder, even, than being alone on Valentines Day— a day where, as beautiful as the sentiment may be, relationships are bought and sold with cheap bouquets of flowers and even cheaper boxes of chocolates. Much harder than New Years Day— a day where relationships ended and began, and couples celebrated seeing a year full of possibilities together.

Christmas is different; is something _more._ At least to him, it has, for as long as Steve can remember, been so much more than just another store bought, postcard holiday. The day, an imperfect embodiment of love and of family.

The time of the year is a bitter one, it as acrid as swallowing battery acid. A time of the year where Steve can't help himself from wandering towards thoughts of Bucky— forcefully suppressed as much as possible, they poke out from the security of the depths of his mind. Can't help but dwell on every hope and dream he had once had for their future.

And he hates himself for it. Hates that after all the time, the hurt, he still hasn't allowed himself to move on.

As much as Steve likes to imagine— likes to pretend— he masks his pain well, he knows he doesn't. He knows, too, that everybody around him sees it as clearly as he does.

Like a fine armour, Steve wears his pain; he always has. His misery, a thick shield with the only purpose being to protect an already fragile, already broken heart.

He pinches the bridge of his nose between a shaking thumb and forefinger.

Under his breath, Steve reprimands himself— he is no longer a child, and childhood is where sweet thoughts of Bucky belong.

•

"What's your plans for the 24th?" Natasha enquires, sitting across from Steve and sipping on a double espresso.

Lunchtime slowly approaches. Yet the elegant café, even with most of the tables filled with customers, is hushed.

Steve splays his fingers against the soft, cream tablecloth, the material heavenly beneath his calloused fingers. A sheepish smile dances across his lips as he shrugs and answers, "What I always do."

"Pig out in sweats and get stupidly drunk? Natasha asks, deadpan, eyebrow raised in emphasis.

"And read. Don't forget that I read, too."

Unamused, Natasha chuckles drily. Averting her eyes, her fingers tighten around the width of the tiny cup.

Sighing quietly, she brushes a thick lock of shoulder-length, deep red hair behind her ear, and meets Steve's gaze directly. "Why don't you spend it with us?" Natasha raises a hand to stop Steve from speaking until she's done. "You know the kids love you, and they want nothing more than another day with their favourite uncle."

Dismissively, Steve hums, thoughtfully rubs the tablecloth between his fingers; behaves as if he is giving Natasha's suggestion a genuine thought, when really he has already made up his mind.

"You guys have me all to yourself for Christmas," he says, and quirks the left corner of his mouth; a muted smile that barely reaches his eyes.

"C'mon, Stevie," Natasha urges, "Corinne and Nathaniel said if you spend Christmas Eve with us they'll do your nails— Nathaniel just bought this new glittery black nail polish that he's been dying to try out on you, and Corinne thinks burgundy is definitely your colour. Clint disagrees with both of them— he's trying to get them to use purple."

"And what do Cori and Nate think about purple?" Steve asks with a laugh.

Instead of answering, Natasha pulls her face into an acute grimace, succeeding in gathering another smothered bark of laughter from Steve.

"Nat, if I say no, I'll feel like I'm letting down my favourite pair of children," he whines, collecting himself, but just barely.

"Hey, whatever you do, it's okay," Natasha says smoothly. "The kids will have plenty of other opportunities to paint your nails and pamper you— I mean, you're _always_ in and out of our house."

He knows Natasha means well— she wants only to stop Steve from holing himself up in his home as he usually does. More than being Steve's best friend, she's the closest person, anymore, that he has to family. She worries about him.

This is the song and dance they do every year. Natasha attempting to convince Steve to spend more day with her and Clint than alone with his thoughts. She cares, and Steve loves how much she cares— but sometimes, people just need to be alone.

"I'll see," Steve diverts with a heavy shrug, noncommittal. "No promises."

•

Steve, unlike Natasha whose Christmas shopping list is sorted by June and at the ready in case of any alterations, leaves all his gift hunting for the month of December itself.

Hands buried in the wool-lined pockets of his brown leather jacket, Steve wanders aimlessly through the mall.   
He cranes his neck to glance into one crowded shop after another, packed full with others just like him— procrastinators, those either too busy or too distracted with their own lives to prepare ahead of time.

Mentally, Steve checks points off the list he has absently compiled.

For Corinne, a miniature drum set she had all but begged Steve to buy her; check. Nathaniel, a small collection of the Attack on Titan manga that Steve wasn't entirely sure Natasha would approve of; check.   
For Clint and Natasha, a pair of purple knitted sweaters to compliment each other— Clint's with a googly-eyed puppy sewn across the front, Natasha's with a googly-eyed kitten.

He needs now to buy presents for Tony, Rhodey and their two children— even the children just as picky and difficult to buy anything for as Tony is. Not to forget Sam and Bruce.

As it every year, Steve has his work cut out for him; he wouldn't change it for the world.

Steve's breath hitches, stutters just as his step does. The tip of his shoe catches on the edge of an unevenly laid tile and sends him stumbling forward, would have sent him sprawling if he hadn't caught and righted himself just in time.

"Bucky?" he calls out breathlessly, eyes stuck on the black leather jacket covered back standing a few feet in front of him.

Cerulean blue gaze glues to the jet-black hair slicked back with gel, Steve's heart misses a beat— feels as if it has stopped beating altogether— before it speeds into an erratic race.

He inches forward, and rests a heavy-knuckled hand on the stranger's shoulder. Doubtful now, he calls out again, "Bucky?"

The man turns around, brow furrowed as he casts a lopsided, unsure smile Steve's way. "Bucky?" the man repeats, the foreign name rolling awkwardly off his tongue; questioning.

Slowly, Steve drops his hand to his side. It dangles beside him, a limp mass he cannot bring himself to move.

"Sorry," he mutters, a broken whisper. "Sorry, I, uh... I thought you were someone else."

"You really know someone named Bucky?" the man good-naturedly asks, his smile crooked and beautifully gap-toothed, revealing a pair of winsome dimples.

He is stunning; he is not Bucky.

It's painful to admit it, but this isn't the first time that Steve has made this mistake.

From across a crowded room, in a queue as it curls around a store, in a library as the building stands hauntingly silent. Through tired eyes the blunder is natural. Is common, is expected.

He buries his grief as deep as he buries his memories, his desires; all tinged with an edge of sharp bitterness.   
Six feet, under layers of devilry and dirt; buried so deep that, unknowingly, Steve has forced himself to remain a stationary block planted firmly on the _denial_ stage of grief and loss, never allowing himself to move anywhere beyond that.

"Yeah," Steve answers, gathering himself with a hushed, forced, laugh. He shakes his head in disregard, "Well, I used to."

The younger man smiles, lips drawn together in a thin line, and holds out a hand to shake. "I'm Markus," he introduces himself, shrugging apologetically as he continues, "Sorry I couldn't be the guy you were looking for."

"Steve," Steve introduces, closing his hand around Markus' and shooting the man an awkward, equally as apologetic, smile. "Don't apologize... I shouldn't be looking for him anyways. It, y'know... just happens sometimes."

•

Winters are harder to get through alone. Without Bucky, they always have been.

He remembers a time when he used to be smaller— bony, all sharp points and jagged edges. Tiny enough that he would be able to mould his body perfectly against the curves of Bucky's; their bodies fitting together as if they were made for each other, as if they were meant to lay in each other's arms. Like two halves of the same pendant.

Winters are colder alone, unbearably harsh. This, something he noticed years ago, ever since Bucky had left.

Bundled in several layers of thick blankets, the warmth is nothing compared to the waves of heat he remembers emanating from Bucky.  
The blankets may cocoon him comfortably in the soft folds, but they are not the strong cage of arms Steve still finds himself wishing for. Finds himself longing for.

•

"Tell me you've changed your mind," Natasha begins, hopeful.

In the background Steve hears the unmistakable sounds of children arguing, shrill voices as they yell at each other.   
He chortles, more a loud puff of breath than an actual laugh, when Corinne's savage war cry echoes through the tinny phone speaker.

Distractedly, he clears his throat. Even though Natasha can't see him, Steve shrugs, says, "Sorry, Nat. I'd love to spend more time in the madhouse, but I've got a routine and I think I'll just stick to it."

"I respect that, but if you think I won't ask you again three days from now you're sorely mistaken," Natasha warns, light and teasing. " _And_ ," she continues after barely taking a breath, "I have no control over the children. If they badger you, they aren't mine, they're Clint's."

"Sure, Nat," he agrees, keeping his tone just as light as Natasha is keeping hers.

•

Strong hands ghost over Steve's skin, a trail of goosebumps in its trail. Gentle, despite their strength.

Bucky's lips press firm against the curve of Steve's neck, against the hollow of his collarbone, against his chest; acquainting themselves with Steve's body in a way he hadn't been able to before.

A sheen of sweat dusts across Steve's skin, covers him like a thin sheet of water as he wakes with a frightening start. Jolted to awareness as if he were struck with lightning.

Dreams, as delicate as these are— beautiful gifts, wrapped and presented to Steve in the bottomless abyss that is his mind, perfect experiences that are the closest to Bucky he will ever be able to get — are more difficult to get through than the nightmares that burden Steve, plague the darkest shadows of his sleep.

He runs his tongue over cracked lips and smiles wryly to himself; breathes out an unsteady stream of air, a bare huff of an exhausted laugh. Unsteady hands travel over his face, rub away at the sleep in his eyes; tug at his messy hair.

The acrimonious remnants of these dreams of Bucky, as wonderful as they are, stay with him for ages afterwards. Leave Steve's body leaden with— instead of the lust such imaginings should inspire— curling wisps of loss that consume Steve's body whole. Leave him with a burning desire for _touch_ he wishes he could control. A longing, a need, he can't, as much as he tries to, suppress.

His eyes travel to the alarm clock that sits on the sturdy bedside table, spares a stuttered glance over the numbers, red and illuminated in the darkness of his room. Four in the morning; outside painted in raven hues, the sun not anywhere near colouring the sky in its brilliance.

Body strung with feverish adrenaline, Steve drags himself out from underneath the suffocating covers.

His exhaustion is carved into the very hollow of his bones, but that is nothing new; it always is.

 

Except for the usual smattering of runners— some with dogs, some without— and cyclists that embroider the sidewalks, the streets are deserted. A rare car zooms past, setting off early to farther destinations.

Steve is used to this, the appearance of the city at dawn before it really has been given the chance to awaken.

He wanders into the convenience store that stands just a few blocks from his apartment, one of those with a neon _24/hr open_ sign adhered to its front. The cashier, aged and bright-eyed, shoots Steve a warm, welcoming, smile as he enters, happily greeting his regular customer; chipper even this early in the morning.

The aisle filled with sweets and chocolates is the one Steve immediately walks to. His head is buried under the hood of a grey sweater, hands hidden in his pockets as he peruses the shelves of comfort food. To hell with any kind of healthy diet, Steve thinks as he pulls a packet of jellybeans off the rack and searches idly for the fruit strips and marshmallows. It _is_ almost Christmas, he reasons with a shrug.

He rounds the corner into the next aisle, heading towards the oddly placed crisps; clustered awkwardly with crackers and cereals. Alarmed, Steve stumbles back as he collides into the body bent forward in the path before him.

"Sorry," he apologizes in a gruff, rushed murmur, attempting to hurriedly right himself.

Sharp, the edge of a knife cutting into delicate flesh, Steve inhales a breath. He settles his blue-eyed gaze— dull, metallic grey in the dim overcast of fading lights— on the man. Steady as he stares, as he probes; searches.

A matching pair of hollow black bags, a distressing purple, paint the shadowed skin beneath his sunken eyes; skin that creases and folds, hides underneath a fine scruff of dark hair as it dances across the strong line of his jaw.

Haunted grey eyes, a dull silver flecked with barely noticeable specks of unilluminated blue, darken as hands dipped in inky nothingness coil inward from the far edges of his irises to shift restlessly over Steve's startled form.

Years, it seems— torturous years— have passed since he has last had a moment of sleep.

Steve's eyes roam intently, not at all in time with the erratic beat of his heart, over the man. He notices the differences— stringy dark hair, unwashed, falls to rest at the heavy muscled line of his shoulders— and still Steve recognizes him.

Deeply, filling his lungs to the brim, Steve inspires. "Bucky?" he mutters.

The men scrutinize each other intensely.

A second of silence, as it envelops, as it shimmers around them, passes; long enough for Steve to ask himself if he is dreaming. If he is stuck in another of his vivid nightmares, a mere illusion of reality that will take ahold of him and refuse to let him go.

"Bucky," Steve repeats, louder and more certain, taking a step forward.

The man clears in throat, jerks his head in a stuttered nod. Voice a hoarse scratch, he answers, monosyllabic, "Yeah."

A crooked, hesitant grin breaks across Steve's face.

A hand tugs at his heart, painfully so, at the stoic _blankness_ that adorns Bucky's face; tugs harder at Bucky's sudden tensing, recoiling, leaning away from Steve as Steve raises his arms to reach out for a hug.

It hurts; the confused furrow in Bucky's brow as he traces his eyes over Steve. As Bucky seems to attempt to place him.

"Steve?" he asks roughly, thick eyebrows raised, gathered together in a scrunched line, and emphasizing his proposed question.

Steve nods, his grin slowly fading.

"It's me, Buck... I..." he pauses; what does he say to the man he has loved and has lost? "I thought you were dead."

"Yeah," Bucky says. He halts, as if words don't come easily to him anymore, as if speaking requires an effort he no longer possesses, slowly he continues, "For a time, me, too."

Steve stares at Bucky— this man who, for more than a decade, has been a ghost; a figment of his imagination that lives in the back of Steve's mind, a whisper of smoke.

He stares at Bucky, at this achingly familiar stranger, and he finds himself at an utter loss for words.

"We had a funeral and... And everything," Steve continues in disbelief, trailing off breathlessly.

"Yeah. I visited the grave," Bucky answers; nonchalant, as if he is speaking of something as simple, as mundane as grocery shopping, and not about the site at which he— in essence— is buried. "It looks a bit rough— Kinda... unkempt."

"I try," Steve begins, shoulders hunching in a defensive shrug, "But it's tough, y'know, having to see it."

Bucky nods, swiftly swiping a strand of long dark hair away from where it has fallen in front of his left eye.

"I'm teasing," Bucky answers, a corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile. The familiar smile, as bare as it is, seems strange dancing across this man's face. "I was just teasing. I don't... I don't really care."

"Oh," Steve voices flatly, uncertain.

He rubs a hand across his nape, fingers brushing against the strands of fair hair that stray to the strong curve of his neck.

Asphyxiating awkwardness; a living breathing creature that grows to monstrous heights as it hungrily feeds on their static quiet, on their years of distance and separation.

"Yeah," Bucky says, a hesitant repetition.

Steve worries at the hem of his worn T-shirt, rubbing the soft material between his fingers in a subconscious show of his muted anxiety.

Year after year has passed steadily by, and still he has held onto the burning belief, a candle of hope, that Bucky has been alive— in his very bones, his soul, Steve could feel it.

How many times in these years has he envisioned scenarios so similar to this one taking place— a chance encounter; eyes meeting from across a crowded room and excitedly recognizing each other; an unexpected knock, a fist rapping excitedly at Steve's door.

Envisioned scenarios where immediately they fall into their old pattern of banter and camaraderie, sharing much missed, _much needed,_ hugs and kisses.

Nothing in the least like the peculiarity of this meeting.

So strained, they may have never even met before today. So strained, the idea of asking Bucky to join him for even a simple cup of coffee seems outlandish.

"Where've you been? Y'know, these last few years?" Steve asks, dusting a strand of hair off his moistened forehead.

"Just been _around_... I ended up in Russia for awhile— if you're asking, it was awful. Always so cold," Bucky says, monotonous; lacking warmth, emotion. "Then France."

He says France and his voice is strangled, as if saying the word is a struggle; a burden. Ice descends over Bucky's iron-grey eyes, hardens his gaze as he stares blankly ahead at the air directly ahead of him; his jaw tightens firmly, sharply.

There is history there, Steve can see. History he is not sure Bucky would share with him, even if Steve were to ask.

"That's nice," Steve says, a sceptical, hesitant utterance.

"It was."

It is infuriating; how little Bucky is saying; how little he is willing to give away.

"How long've you been in town?" Steve asks, curious and for lack of anything else to say.

Bucky runs a hand through his long hair, his eyes dart nervously around the store— looking for a means of escape. "Six months, about," he answers in a reluctant murmur.

"Six months?" Steve repeats, eyes widening. Astounded, and trying to keep his astonishment under wraps.

And, if the confession strikes Steve worse than having a knife lodged deep in the center of his chest, directly in his heart; if, in that moment, those few words leaves him crumbling, putting himself unsteadily back together only to shatter into even smaller pieces; pieces so small, a fine powder— he can pretend.

If Steve has to grind the backs of his teeth together to stop himself from pulling his lips into a curving frown; if he has to grind the backs of his teeth together to stop himself from actually, physically crying out at the fact that in all these months since Bucky's return he has not once thought to reconcile with Steve, not even for the briefest of moments— he can pretend.

For Bucky, he can pretend.

"Hm," Bucky hums under his breath in hollow acknowledgement. "I can't believe you stayed around. I mean, different area, right? But... It's the same city."

"It's home," Steve answers dryly, finishing with a noncommittal shrug, hands back to sitting in his pockets. "I can't believe you've been back for so long."

To his own ears, the accusation rings clear— _I can't believe you've been back for so long and you didn't come to see me; I can't believe you've been back for so long and this is how we had to meet; I can't believe you've been back for so long and it seems all you want to do is get away from me._

And, from the flash of guilt that sparks behind Bucky's darkened eyes, the furrow of his brow, Steve realizes he hears it, too.

"I see you around," Bucky says, a diversion, a non-anwer; said in a way that makes it seem as if he thinks this is explanation enough.

"You see me around?" he echoes, blunt, running a tongue over dried lips and glancing away; swallowing a disgruntled scoff. "Just... Six months? _Really?_ And you haven't come to see me once?"

"I make a point to stay away." Here, the honest explanation, given with a shrug, a heavy hunching of weighted shoulders as Bucky runs a raw, bitten tongue over chapped, just as bitten, lips.

His eyes spring to meets Steve's, quickly spring away.

"You what?" Steve asks, confused and wanting of breath.

He wants to sound venomous, filled with rage; is ashamed when all he sounds is helpless. Is ashamed when he sounds as fatigued as he actually is; more weary than he would like to admit.

"Steve," Bucky begins, tired, more assured than he has sounded their entire meeting. Taking a step back, he widens the gap between them, says, "It was good to see you."

With a grim smile cutting across his face and aimed at Steve, Bucky nods once— a clear farewell— and turns on his heel to leave; a wisp of smoke as it dances in an enclosure of palms caging it, allowing itself to be devoured by the air, laughing and refusing to be held captive.

Cold hands grip at and squeeze the air out of his lungs. His breathing falters.

Fear, all consuming fear, inches its way up the length of his body; if he lets Bucky walk away now, Steve knows that anything more than a chance meeting would be but a dream.

"Spend Christmas Eve with me?" Steve blurts, calling to Bucky without thinking.

Internally, he cusses at himself— his brain has always worked slower than his mouth, than his fists; has always been the last to find out about the stupid things Steve chooses to do.

Bucky breathes out a quiet chuckle, turns to meet Steve's fiery stare.

"Christmas Eve?" Bucky asks.

"Yes. Most people have plans on Christmas, right?" Steve reasons, "I always spend Christmas Eve on my own— Which is... Which is irrelevant. I'm _assuming_ that you'd have Christmas _Eve_ free, too. So, spend it with me."

"Look, Stevie, I want to say yes," he mutters lightly, steely gaze softens as he affectionately addresses Steve. "But, I can't—"

"Why not?"

"You know why?" He makes a point to look everywhere but at Steve, inhaling shallowly. "Too much... Too much has happened. We're not the same people we were eleven, twelve years ago. We can't pretend to be." His speech sounds rehearsed; practiced and unnatural.

"Then don't pretend," Steve urges, desperation that he cannot hide laces each of his words. He takes a step forward and grins widely, crooked and slightly hysterical. "We won't. We _don't_ _have to_... Please, Buck. I..." _I've missed you;_ is what he wants to say, what he almost _does_ say before he clamps his teeth down on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he makes a point of leveling his voice and says, "I'd like for us to catch up."

"I have to go," Bucky says, jiggling a small bag of dog food that Steve has been too absorbed, too distracted, to notice he has this entire time been carrying. "I have to feed my dog."

Steve notices how clipped his sentences are, how he avoids looking directly at Steve— graces his eyes, rather, at the air around him, how he directs himself around having to use Steve's name again.

"You have a dog."

"I have a dog," Bucky repeats with a slow nod, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. With a fond smile, he continues, "Her name is Winter."

Steve smiles in return, Bucky's obvious devotion is infectious, "Winter?"

"Yeah," Bucky shrugs.

Shuffling a step towards Bucky, Steve shoots a crooked smile his way. He is careful, as if he is approaching a wild animal; a docile creature, vicious when caught unawares.

"Say yes, Buck. At least—" he raises a hand to stop Bucky from speaking, from cutting him off. " _At least_ take my number. It's still the same as before, but I can write it down for you if you don't have it anymore or—"

"I have it," Bucky breaks in calmly, stops Steve from continuing with his nervous rambling.

"Okay. Okay, yeah," he stutters, his raspy laugh is acidly tinged; dry, but not really humourless. "You have it?"

Bucky nods.

"This whole time?"

Again, Bucky nods.

There again, Steve feels that bitterness creeping up on him. Threatens to engulf him.

"Steve," Bucky says his name and, even burning with exasperation, it runs through Steve like a bolt of lightning. "I'm sorry— believe me, I am— if I've made you think that _this_ is going _anywhere_. I know you think we can just pick up from where we left off... But we can't. I've said that. _We can't._ I've been through too much, seen too much. I'm no good to be around."

"Damn it, Bucky. I'm not asking you to marry me—" Steve shouts, "I don't expect us to— I'm not asking for anything else. Please, just... Have dinner with me."

Bucky shrugs heavily, inclines his head in a quick nod.

Without a backward glance over his shoulder, worn combat boots tapping against the uneven white tiles of the store's floor, Bucky walks away from Steve; leaves him standing heavy-limbed and alone, fluorescent lights colouring his skin in a shade of sickening, sallow yellow.

•

"Natasha," he begins, urgent right from the very start. "I need your advice."

"You always need my advice, Rogers," Natasha notes with an easy shrug. "You're incapable of looking after yourself."

Natasha carries herself with a lightness; exudes an air that is almost teasing. Each of her words, listening closer, are marked by an insistent, barely perceptible, concern.

She leans back in the plump seat of the couch, rests an unfaltering gaze on Steve as he paces from one end of her living room to the other; as he deftly manoeuvres around oddly scattered toys, and pieces of Lego.

Steve groans loudly, rubs shaking hands over a pale face— colourless, drained— and looks at his friend. "I saw Bucky today."

It is odd to say these words. Strange to hear them; for them to materialize and take up such a huge amount of space in the quarters of the room. They are harsh words; spiteful as they up all the oxygen, force everybody else to struggle to gasp for air.

"Bucky?" Natasha asks, incredulous, cautious as she prods. Her brow is furrowed, lips pursed in a confused frown. "I thought he was dead... We had a funeral and _everything_."

Steve dips his head in a series of jagged little nods. He takes a moment to steady his breath, to reign himself back in and calm the erratic rise and fall of his chest; it is an arduous task. He hums an answer under his breath.

Words spew out of Steve in a series of stark sentences that jumble, that barely make sense, "Yes, there was a funeral. Sure, it wasn't a big funeral— How could it have been?— But everybody who mattered was there. Right? Right—"

"Steve," Natasha is stern, voice dangerously lowered before slipping into a calm lilt; Steve recognizes it as her aptly titled _Teacher_ _Voice,_ her _Mom Voice_ _._ "Stop. Okay? Take a deep breath. Let it out. Now. Tell me what's happened."

As per her calm instruction, Steve forces himself to slow down. He takes a deep breath and tells her every jagged, stuttered detail about his and Bucky's meeting.

The words fight to roll off his tongue, to escape from his mouth, to be said. Relaying the experience is far from the Herculean effort he has expected it to be.

Steve slumps into the chair across from Natasha, and it as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He casts a tired smile toward her. Waits.

"Hm," Natasha hums, knowingly. "What I think?"

He nods.

"I _think_ that you're working yourself up for nothing. If you really think of it, you won't even need my advice."

"Wow," Steve scoffs, "Thank you. So much."

•

He doesn't know why— can't seem to find any logical reason for doing it now— but as night begins its slow descent over the bustling city, Steve finds himself once again bringing a lighter to the wick of a candle.

Tradition; this is what Steve chalks it up to. His inability to stray away from something that has brought him solace, safe haven, for more than a decade.

A decade where loss has rested upon him like a physical weight; burdened him, forced him to bend in half as he carried it. A boulder, pressed against the cave of his chest, crushed his lungs, cut off his breath into staggered tendrils of air.

A decade fueled by loss; loss that has burned away at him. Loss that has left him darkened, consumed by fire, an ashy _nothing_ of a man.

So, he lights the candle. Steve closes his eyes, revels in the prick of warmth as it comes to life and dances its gentle heat across his skin. The candle flickers, flushes his tired skin in a plethora of shades; light pink, red, pale orange.

Steve exhales quietly. To himself, he murmurs, "Merry Christmas, to me."

 

It is late, after eleven, and Steve, fresh out of the shower and hair glistening with droplets of water, wanders into his lounge.

Never before in his life has Steve heard Christmas carols sound as depressing as the ones he has playing softly, on a constant loop, in the background. A tired soundtrack; a mirror, a reflection of Steve himself.

A sharp series of knocks, tapped out in quick succession of each other, sound out through his apartment.

Steve catches his breath. Even from across the room, through thickened brick walls, he _knows._ It is a string that tugs at his heart, his soul; a fluid line that connects him to Bucky. Transcends space and time. Twines around them, secures them firmly to each other.

Hands shaking, he pulls at the hem of the T-shirt— snug, now feeling far too short— he sucks in a lungful of air and tightens his hand around the doorknob.

"Bucky," Steve breathes out.

Wide-eyed he stares at the man in front of him; dressed in tight black jeans to fit his form intimately, a burgundy sweater that hugs his frame, hair washed and pulled back in a ponytail that brushes against the nape of his neck— he is beautiful, a glorious sight to behold.

A sharp yap draws Steve's attention away from Bucky and to the midnight haired dog attached to the slackened leash.   
_Winter_ , Steve assumes. From her name, he has expected to see a dog with hair a startling, brilliant white; crystal, clear enough to rival the snow. Unlike this dog with her beautiful black hair.

Winter brushes the moistened tip of her nose against Steve's sweatpants-covered leg, barking in loudly and in unrestrained excitement at meeting a new person.

"Quiet down, girl," Bucky murmurs, tugging loosely on her leash, anxious as he darts his eyes over towards the doors of the neighbouring apartments.

Steve laughs quietly at Bucky's concern.

"It's okay," he says and leans forward, props himself on one knee to run a hand through Winter's silken coat of hair. Happily, she barks— burrows her head up into the softness of Steve's touch.

"She likes you," Bucky says, faint, coy. "Of course she likes you."

Steve straightens, returns his gaze to a fondly smiling Bucky. Bucky, who refuses to divert his beautiful, steeled eyes away from where he has kept them trained on Steve.

Loudly, Steve clears his throat. "You know where I live?" he asks, raising a eyebrow in question.

Bucky nods, shrugs as if this is the most natural, normal thing; him, after years, showing up at Steve's front door. "Like I said, I see you around."

"Oh," Steve mutters stupidly, his brows meeting together in a furrow.

As confused as he is, Steve holds back on asking Bucky too many questions. The fear that too many queries will chase Bucky away; make him backtrack, and realize that the distance was better for him.

"We were out walking— Winter likes the outside better at this time of night, y'know. She's weird like that, " Bucky explains lightly, good-natured. He tugs back on Winter's leash, keeping her from animatedly running inside the apartment. "So... Can I come in?"

Steve croaks out a laugh. "Sure. _Sure_ ," he stutters, takes a few steps aside to allow the pair entrance.

Bucky casts an observing eye over the homely apartment.

"Can I take her off her leash?" Bucky asks, turning to watch Steve as he makes quick work of locking the deep red front door. "She's real docile, promise; won't misbehave, or break nothing. I swear." His voice is almost pleading; hurtfully so.

"Don't worry about it, Buck," Steve says, waving a hand dismissively. "My home's yours, you know that."

A frown crosses Bucky's face, and Steve wonders if he has taken a step too far. Crossed a line he did not even know exists.

His fear dissipates, if only slightly, when a wide grin breaks across Bucky's face, trips on his lips; reaches his sparkling eyes, crinkles and creases the corners into a multitude of tiny folds.   
Sudden realization douses Steve that this is the first actual smile Steve has seen from him; not just a tired grin, but one that welcomes sunlight and sunshine into the shadowed crevices of Bucky's face.

Steve ducks his head, a small smile of his own dances across his pink lips.

The longer they spend together, the more this stranger begins to seem like _his_ Bucky.

"Do you want a drink?" Steve asks, eyeing Bucky as the man takes a seat on the sofa, rests against the comfortable armrest.

Distractedly, Bucky shakes his head no. "I don't drink," he states plainly, shifting in his seat to make place for Winter to settle in front of him.

"Oh." Steve worries at the hem of his T-shirt. "Water? I think I have some orange juice, too. If you want."

Bucky laughs happily, humoured by Steve's fumbling. "It's okay, Steve. I'm fine, really."

The quiet that falls over them— a silence disturbed by the constant ticking of the wall clock, the music in the background— is not as strained as Steve had thought it would be.   
Not comfortable, but far from what he would have expected.

Bare feet tap rhythmically against uncarpeted the parts of his floor as Steve heads to take a seat in the couch beside Bucky.

Again, he is at a loss for words. In no control of the heat that burns just under his skin at the attention Bucky casts over him.

"How long've you had her?" Steve asks, a safe topic of conversion, lazily scratching behind Winter's twitching ear.

"Three years, or so," comes the slow, murmured answer, Bucky gazing at Steve through squinted eyes, his elbows resting on his knees. "She's six, if you're wondering."

"You've had her this whole time?" Steve asks.

"No, not this whole time," Bucky proceeds with caution. "She was my wife's, before she was mine."

Steve starts, recoils. He attempts to hide his shock; he fails.

"Wife?" Steve asks, eyes focused intensely on Winter; preferring this than to have to look up at the other man. His body held tense.

"Yeah," Bucky says.

For a second, a horrifying second, it seems like Bucky won't explain any further.

It wrenches at his heart, that in all this time that Steve has been alone— waiting on the off-chance that somewhere, somehow, Bucky is alive— Bucky has continued to live, to have an entire family of his own.

Betrayal and jealousy bite at him, inch around his mind, his heart. He knows he is being irrational; _knows,_ and cannot help himself.

For a second, a terrifying second, Steve fears he will have to ask for further detail.

"Remember when I said I was in Russia for awhile?" Bucky asks, keeping his eyes firmly on Steve, even as Steve refuses to even glance his way.

"Yeah." A monotone.

Bucky pauses. "Well, it wasn't... It wasn't by choice. You understand? Stevie? It was the _worst_ fucking experience of my life," he inhales loudly, presses his fingertips into the flesh of his palm.

"Bucky," Steve murmurs. He reaches out a hand towards his oldest friend, touches just the tips of his fingers against Bucky's heated skin; blinking sharply at the the red indents left in his palm. "It's okay," he continues, "You don't owe me any explanation."

"I didn't think that I did, but I know I should tell you," Bucky says, drags his hand away from Steve— again, there is that sudden sting, pins stabbed in Steve's heart. Bucky breathes in slowly, lets it out on a shallow exhale. "My time there... It was... _terrible._ Then I got out, and I ended up in this little, postcard French village. And it was really great."

It doesn't take an overly keen ear to notice the way that Bucky glosses past the details; a delicate subject.

Half-heartedly, Steve nods. "You met her there?"

"Yeah... Wanda," he says, the wistful smile that dances across his lips is a stab of ice to a jealous, bitter heart. "She was a transfer student, working as a waitress."

"Hm," Steve hums, not trusting himself to speak.

Fears that if Steve begins to speak, all that will tumble from his mouth will be anger-filled accusations; words that he could not control, tinged with hurt.

"I have to go," Bucky says, rising from his seat and shocking Steve with his sudden movement.

His eyes shine with a manic light— a sheen of unshed tears, threatening to drip onto his lined cheeks. It is as if Bucky believes he has shared far too much about himself; as if by giving away even this teensy bit of information, he has made himself vulnerable.

Jerkily, Bucky reaches for Winter's leash. He disturbs her from where she has chosen to rest, burrowed beneath the corner of the hardwood coffee table. Ignores her quiet, disgruntled whine as he tugs her towards him and away from Steve.

"Wait. Bucky, where are you going?" Steve asks urgently, stumbling over his own feet as he follows after the other man.

"I told you. Okay? I told you, I'm no good to be around," Bucky says, turning sharply on his heel to glare at Steve.

He says it, and it is filled with venom, with malice; loathing, with hatred turned inward.

He says it, and he folds in on himself. Drops the leash from where he holds it, uncoils from around his purple, bruised knuckles, to land on the floor with a muffled thud.

Steve inches forward. He is unsure of what to say, yet still he parts his lips to speak to Bucky; to urge the man to sit, to stay. Tell Bucky that he wants to hear everything he has to say. Tell him that he must be exaggerating; there's not a way in the world he could be _no good_ for Steve to be around him.

Before Steve has a chance to utter a single word, Bucky speaks, his voice shaking terribly, "I had a family, Steve." And Steve has never heard a man sound as defeated and broken as Bucky sounds. "I had a wife... and a daughter... A baby, barely three years old. I... I had them... And I lost them."

Steve freezes; stares at the shattered man standing across from him and freezes.

"Bucky..." Steve murmurs, eluded by even the slightest idea of what he is to say in this situation.

He aches, and he wants to give into the ache; this jealousy that burns just beneath the surface at the fact that there is this whole life of Bucky's that Steve knows not even an inkling about. That Steve is not a part of.

He wants to give into it, but he doesn't.

Steve lacks the correct words to say; knows that anything he says will be meaningless, worthless. Instead, he takes a step towards Bucky. For a split second, he hesitates, before wrapping the other man in a warm hug.

And, if, even in this desperate moment, he revels in the feel of Bucky's body pressed against his; if he buries his nose into the scruffy, hair dusted curve of Bucky's neck and inhales his families smell; if he alights at the fact they are together again— Steve can pretend. Steve can ignore.

But pretending is difficult, and there are no words to explain how tired of it all Steve really is.

It's unceremonious, the way their lips crash against each other without any warning. One minute they are apart, the next plastered together; devouring each other as if it is the sole thing keeping them alive.

No words are exchanged, no negotiations made.

Hands tear away at clothes, throw them to litter the unsteady path they take to Steve's bedroom.

Hands hungrily explore bodies as skin— unblemished, scarred; unworn, mutilated— is slowly revealed.

It isn't at all like what Steve has spent all this time imagining. Not at all like what he has thought his and Bucky's first time to be like, not in the least.

It is desperate, bitter and lustful; it is a _want_ born of a deep-seeded skin hunger, of a love they barely had been given time to approach.

It is wild and rough; hands scratching, teeth biting and tearing, lips sucking dark purple bruises into exposed skin.

Sex, fuelled by loss, by pain; they have sex, not make love.

But it works.

Their bodies press against each other, and there is no better distraction.

•

Warms lips, stretched into a gentle smile, press against the line of skin just beneath, just behind Steve's ear.

He grumbles tiredly and moves to bury himself deeper beneath the cool, white covers. Gently, he swats away at the intrusion of the lips as they return.

"Stevie," Bucky rasps against Steve's sleep flushed skin, his morning voice a delicious, welcome sound. "C'mon, baby, wake up. We need to talk."

Steve shakes his head in pointed disagreement— off the top of his head, he could put together a lengthy list of things we wants to do right now; _talking_ is not one them.

A pleasurable shiver runs down the length of his spine at the silken touch of Bucky's lips on his skin; Bucky planting a trail of soft kisses down the Achillean curve of Steve's neck.

"Hm," Steve hums, lazily cracking an ocean-blue eye open to gaze sleepily at the man staring down at him; arm still wrapped around Steve, much in the same position they had fallen asleep in.

Grinning, revealing wolfish teeth— as sharp as they look, Steve knows— Bucky places his mouth briefly against the bow of Steve's lips.

"Good morning," Bucky murmurs.

The sun as it filters through the soft white curtains, lands over Bucky and frames him majestically.

Enough to leave a man breathless, the sight awes Steve.

He wonders how he ever got so lucky as to have this perfect specimen of masculinity land in his bed. Knows that the moment they step out of this bed, they will be in a different world— one where consequences will have to be faced, and conversations must be had that could easily destroy everything they have.

No, the last thing Steve wants to do is _talk._

"It'd be better," he begins, pauses as he reaches out a slender hand to cup Bucky's jaw and direct him forward, "If you'd not stop kissing me."

"I don't see any mistletoe," Bucky muses, smiling. Glee dancing behind his glassy eyes, he murmurs, "Merry Christmas, by the way."

Steve cranes his neck to catch Bucky's lips, humming angrily when Bucky dodges the attachment of lips. "Bucky," he whines.

"Aren't ya gonna wish me back?"

Under his breath, Steve hums. He rolls his eyes and exhales a put-upon sigh. "Merry Christmas. Now c'mon, kiss me."

"That doesn't sound very convincing," Bucky muses, tapping a finger against his chin.

"I'll show you _convincing_ ," he growls, "Merry Christmas. Now kiss me or I'll fight you."

A low chuckle rumbles through Bucky. He lowers himself toward Steve, arms outstretched to rest on either side of the man's head; caging Steve in as he kisses him slowly, deeply. Passionate, making up for lost time.

"I like this," Bucky notes, his traveling hand running over a muscled bicep, over a defined torso.

"What? You didn't like me before?" Steve teases, mockingly incensed.

"You kidding me? I've always loved your body, Stevie. It's a shame, though, that I didn't get to experience it before."

"You get to experience this one, Bucky," Steve says, his voice seductively low, husky. With shining eyes, glittering in the bare sun, he stares up at Bucky, runs a finger lightly over naked skin; beckoning. "Take advantage of that."

For a moment, Bucky allows himself to get distracted. He closes his eyes, worries his bottom lip between his teeth and permits himself to imagine the havoc, the pleasure Steve could wreak through his body with just his fingers.

For a moment, only a moment.

"No, Steve," Bucky whispers, staring into the depthless pools that are the other man's eyes; they are oceans, deep as oceans. "You and me— We messed shit up 'cause we didn't _talk_ for so many years. We can't do that now."

"You regret what we did?" His insecurities fighting their way to the surface.

"No," Bucky says. "No. Not at all. But we still gotta talk about this. About everything. About us. About what's gonna happen?"

Steve runs his fingers down Bucky's chest, leaves faint white trails as he rakes the blunt tips of his nails down the expanse of torso.

"I'd rather just have sex," Steve admits with a shrug. He tangles slender fingers in the mass of dark curls that dust the tanned skin, tugs slightly.

"After." It is a solemn promise, made with a quick meeting of lips; an innocent peck.

They slip out of bed, and the future hangs over them, suffocates like the cover of an oppressing blanket.

 

They dress comfortably— Bucky wears clothes borrowed from Steve's cupboard, his own thrown in the wash, too crumpled to wear.  
Dark roasted coffees are placed on the coffee table, Steve and Bucky settle against the fluffy pillows of the sofa.

Winter, barely awake, tucks herself under the coffee table; the place she has claimed as her own.

A second passes where all that they do is stare at each other; take in each other in the light of a new day. Take in each other with fresh purple bruises, markings, planted over porcelain skin.

A second, here and gone.

And they talk. Once they start it is like the opening of a tap; words, stories, memories, flowing like glistening water out of the head of a faucet. Uncontained. Unrestricted.

Their love is the gentle flow, the ebb, of the ocean. It is gentle, it is constant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to Lover Come Back by City and Colour (it's beautiful, and what I'd like to imagine Steve listening to in this fic)
> 
> If you have any thoughts about this fic I'd be more than happy to hear from you. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, jellybeans ♡
> 
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> ._._._._._.
> 
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> 
> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


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